


Waffle the Goblin Barbarian

by AdmiralStrato



Category: Dungeons & Dragons - All Media Types
Genre: Goblin - Freeform, Murderhobo
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-26
Updated: 2019-01-26
Packaged: 2019-10-16 13:26:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,568
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17550554
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AdmiralStrato/pseuds/AdmiralStrato
Summary: This is the backstory of my newest OC Waffle the goblin Barbarian. A wee little murderhobo with a heart of gold.





	Waffle the Goblin Barbarian

**Author's Note:**

> I'm very stupid and don't know how do words gud so please be kind to my old poor self lol.

Waffle grew up the daughter of two farmers in a goblin village in a swamp. Well “Daughter” was a strong word, mainly because her parents cared for her about as a much as one would care for a limp racing horse. She didn't know why her parents hated her so but she knew they did more than they hated anything else. 

She was very short, with dark green skin and hair and eyes as brown as logs. Big ears stuck out of her long messy ponytail, they looked almost like small wings, framing her square jaw and round cheeks.

They had given her no name so she named herself Waffle, after her favorite food that her Grandpa made for her when he would visit. She had five total possessions to her name. Her shirt, skirt, handwraps, foot wraps, and Pickle. 

Pickle was the name of a stuffed land shark her Grandpa had given to her on her first-and by her parents decree-last birthday. She named it after her second favorite food. She felt the name fit because of the of the plush's sickly green color. 

Pickle was her best friend. He didn't call her names like her parents and the other kids did. He didn't throw bottles at her as she walked about the house like her father did. He didn't tell her how repulsive she was like her mother did. Pickle would just smile his sewed on smile at her and listen to her whistle while she fished every afternoon. 

Pickle was her best friend. 

She was six years old when she left home. One day her mother got drunk and took pickle from her, ripping the stuffed land shark in half in front of her daughters eyes. When Waffle ran to grab her stuffed friend her mother, in a rage, slapped her square across the face before throwing her out of the house, tossing Pickle and his arm out in tow. 

Waffle decided she'd had enough. 

As a last “Fuck you” to her parents she let loose all their cattle, but not before stealing a pig for herself. No one in the village gave a damn about her so she decided her only option was to travel to her Grandpa's house, a two day journey away.

She used a carrot on a stick to ride the pig across the marshes. She was scared when the nights arrived, but Pickle and the pig she named Chicken, after her third favorite food, were good company.

After a day and a half thanks to Chicken being much faster than she had anticipated, she had arrived at her Grandpa's hut.

She always loved her Grandpa. A tradesmen with neighboring human villages, he would always come over during winter for a week and cook her waffles with chicken and pickles on top every morning. He'd go fishing with her, walk the marshes with her, and even keep her parents off her back. She'd often ask him to let her stay at his house but he would always say “Maybe when your older Jackrabbit.” a nick name he gave her because of her buck teeth.

He was surprised to say the least when he saw her soaked in mud and caked in sweat, riding a pig up to his front porch. Stuffed land shark in one hand, a carrot on a stick in the other, and a big smile on her face.

He was fuming with anger when she explained what happened to him. Going as far as to call her father “Whorespawn” and her mother a word she dared not ever repeat. After his rage filled outburst at her  
parents, he told her she was going to live with him from now on.

The next years of Waffles life were the greatest. Her grandpa fed her good every morning and evening, he had a pond for fishing, and plenty of land to explore. He would take her every other evening to a hill that looked over the hut and all the marshes, and tell her stories of adventurers and heroes he had sold goods to over the years, stories that fascinated her to no end. He even let her keep Chicken as a pet and helped her Pickle sew Pickle back together. The only rule he had enforced upon her was to never leave the hut at night under any circumstance. She didn't know why this rule was so important, but she followed it. 

When she turned Twelve he decided to train her in fighting, so she could defend herself against any creatures while exploring the marshes. He gave her an old carpenters sledgehammer. It was almost as heavy and tall as she was but she loved it. She named it Sweet Potato, after her fourth favorite food, and she practiced with it every day. Eventually, after a few years, she was able to wield the hammer like it was light as a feather. 

One night while lying in bed she heard her Grandpa leave the hut. This concerned her because, much like her, he never left the hut at night for any reason. He conducted his deals with the neighboring villages during the afternoon. She peaked outside between the loose wall boards of her room, seeing him walk north towards his fishing pond with a large brown sack in hand. 

She knew she shouldn't have, but she decided to follow him. 

Clutching her hammer tightly she walked through the marsh. 

As she came upon the pond she saw her Grandpa talking with a group of humans. They had torches in there hands and swords at their hips. 

Listening as closely as she could she heard the humans talking about a payment. “Did you bring them you old hick?” She heard the closest one say. She couldn't hear her Grandpa's response but she saw him offer the sack to one of the men. 

The man opened the sack, looking at it for a moment before giving a nod to one of his companions. The other man walked up casually, shaking her grandfathers hand before swiftly taking a dagger and stabbing him in the stomach. 

Waffle, filled with fear for her Grandpa's life and anger towards the foreign invaders, lurched out of the bush hammer in hand, screaming. 

She ran up to the closest man, spinning around and letting the full weight of the hammer crash into his head sending his body falling limply to the ground. She proceeded to run up to the man with the dagger, stopping just before him and flinging her axe backwards before smashing it down on his chest, cracking the bones and sending blood flooding from the wound. 

The two remaining humans having watched both their companions die in seconds by a murderous, screaming green girl with a hammer, turned tail back into the woods.

It took Waffle a moment to calm herself down before turning to her Grandpa, who was on one knee clutching his stomach. 

 

The night was long. Waffle had brought her Grandpa back to the hut, laid him down and patched up his wound. But he didn't look very good. His skin had taken on a unnatural yellow hue and he coughed and gurgled throughout the night. But there was nothing more Waffle could do but sit at his side and hold his hand. 

Waffle awoke to the sound of coughing. She surged up off the floor looking at her Grandpa, who was sitting up coughing into his hand. Tears of joy welled in her eyes as she ran up and hugged him. She asked why the men had done that to him. And he told her about his more dangerous deals with the neighboring villages. How he would take rare plants from the marshes and sell them as ingredients for potions and poisons. The men he dealt with the night before had no intention of paying him for his services.

\- - - - - -

After a couple of weeks her Grandpa returned to work, but not without Waffle, who refused to let him leave without her protection. 

Things took a turn for the worse after five months. 

The yellow tint of his skin never went away, and over time only got worse. He began to cough harder and harder every day, his eyes turned yellow, his legs swelled and hurt so bad he couldn't walk. Waffle had taken over his work so he could stay at home and rest. Sure of his fate, he tried to sit Waffle down and discuss the future, but she refused, claiming he would be fine as long as she was taking care of him.

But one night, in the eve of winter, he passed peacefully in his sleep.

Waffle wasn't sad. She knew deep down that it was going to happen, instead she felt almost relieved that he didn't have to suffer any longer. 

She buried his body on the hill that looked over the hut and all the marshes. And whistled a merry tune by his grave for the whole night in remembrance. 

 

\- - - - - -

Waffle stayed in the marshes for sometime, building a farm and trading her produce with the neighboring villages. But the stories her Grandpa had told her about Adventurers had stuck with her.

She wanted to help people, good hearted people just like her Grandpa.

So one day she took Pickle and Sweet Potato, got on Chicken the pig, and rode off into the setting sun.


End file.
